Reason for Faith
by Joyce LaKee
Summary: As the weeks stretch on after Jem Blythe's capture, Faith Meredith learns the limits of endurance, the boundaries of tolerance and the surprising things the human heart is capable of.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Oh come on, people. If I were the inimitable L.M. Montgomery or the illustrious Colleen McCullough I'd be raking in the dough and not writing fanfiction for free. Sheesh.**

V.A.D. HOSPITAL, ENGLAND

JUNE 1918

"De Bricassart, over here--now."

Ralph turned from the pile of soldiers' letters he was sorting when he heard the familiar, imperious, feminine voice. It was that Canadian nurse, Faith Meredith, and she was speaking to him in the slightly contemptuous manner she always used towards him.

He went and stood in front of her, looking down at her with his usual kindly, but aloof, expression.

"Where are the 22 gauge one inch needles I instructed you to stock?" She demanded. That aloof air of his never failed to annoy her.

"I put a little box on the left hand side of the bottom shelf of the medicine cabinet, but the big box is in the store room above the rolled bandages."

"Nothing is supposed to go above the rolled bandages but suture needles and catgut. You've been told already."

"I beg your pardon," he said mildly, "but the sutures and catgut had already been moved to the shelf across the room where the bath blankets used be. Unfortunately the only available space was above the rolled bandages."

"Where are the bath blankets now?" She asked testily.

"In the laundry. They will be washed and returned to us as soon as possible. At least, that's what the laundresses told me."

"Then where will we put...? Never mind. DeBricassart, clear some space in the store room for the blankets when they come back."

Nodding, Ralph turned and went to the storeroom as he was told. Faith watched him go with mounting irritation. There was never enough space, never enough time. She felt stretched thin as she tried to give good care to all the poor wounded soldiers and the Red Cross saw fit to send _him_ as an assistant.

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Ralph went into the storeroom to clear the space as he had been instructed and started to move boxes to the side, trying to rearrange the shelves to make room for everything the unit needed.

Faith's attitude towards him was not unexpected, nor did it cause him any dismay. Outside of Ireland, to be a healthy man in civilian clothing was to be an object of scorn, and Ralph had suffered his share of rude jibes. He was forbidden to take up arms against his fellow man, but he refused to explain the reason why to anybody. He merely did his job and allowed others to think what they wanted and dislike him or not, according to their own inclination. It was good practice in patience. He would need to cultivate patience if he were to advance in his chosen vocation.

He grinned a little ruefully as he moved the heavy, bulky boxes. On the other hand, he did have an advantage that some of the other civilian men didn't have--he was considered to be extraordinarily handsome. He especially saw how it gave him an advantage in his interactions with the nurses. Some of them were obviously torn between wanting to despise him for not enlisting and at the same time finding him beguiling on the other hand. But Ralph did nothing to encourage conflicted, lovesick nurses. In the line of work he'd chosen, patience was a requirement, but romance had no part.

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After watching Ralph to make sure he went to the storeroom, Faith turned back to her work. There was always plenty of work to do--wound care, treatments, medications. But when those bath blankets came back from the laundry, there had better be a place to put them, or she would personally put Ralph on report.

Actually, she reflected, she couldn't fault his work or his attitude. In the week since he first arrived, he reported to the unit earlier than all the other volunteers, did whatever he was told and usually went above and beyond the call of duty, not leaving until after all the other volunteers did. He listened carefully to the instructions of the nurses and was a fast learner. Faith rarely had to tell him anything twice. The soldiers seemed to like him, too. When he would sit at the bedside of a wounded man listening patiently and kindly to his fears and hopes, inevitably the soldier would become visibly calmer and less agitated. Time after time the soldiers told tell Faith how much good it did them to talk to that volunteer Ralph.

And for some reason Faith couldn't fathom, they didn't seem to see him in the same light she did or share her resentment. But she hated any healthy man not in uniform. She supposed it was wrong to hate, but she couldn't help it. Her father always preached charity from the pulpit, but then again, her father didn't have to work with Ralph de Bricassart on a daily basis, either...


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Nope, I'm still not L.M. Montgomery or Colleen McCullough. Sorry. **

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PRINCE EDWARD ISLAND, CANADA

JUNE 1917

Faith wasted no time, but insisted on a serious talk with her father and stepmother the very day she came home from Redmond. They sat in John Meredith's study and waited for Faith to talk.

She clasped her hands together. Her eyes were shining with a most peculiar glow. She took a deep breath.

"I-want-to-be-trained-as-a-nurse-and-join-the-Voluntary Aid Detachment."

John and Rosemary stared at her, stunned.

"But that's in Britain dear," said Rosemary, who recovered her powers of speech first.

Faith nodded quickly.

"Why do you want to do this?" Rosemary persisted. John seemed unable to say anything. He merely stared at his daughter.

Faith quickly ticked off her reasons. "Because this is the largest war in human history. Because the wounded soldiers need medical care desperately. Because there are never enough nurses to go around during war--they're short even now. Because I want to relieve human suffering. Because I want to do my bit. Because..."

John interrupted her. "Are you sure this is really what you want? _You_, Faith--not just some idea that's been going around, but something _you_ really want?" He took her hand and looked searchingly into her face.

"Without a doubt, Father. We've sent our boys overseas. Jerry and Carl are doing their part. But now we girls have to pitch in and do our part, too."

Rosemary saw something flicker briefly in her husband's eyes when Faith mentioned her brothers, but the girl seemed not to have noticed.

"Father, please, I want to do this. I feel I must do this. There won't be any victory against Germany unless we have enough strong, healthy soldiers to fight. They need nurses. I want to help."

He hesitated, then glanced at Rosemary, who nodded slightly. "Then you have our consent."

Faith threw her arms around her father's neck. "Thank you, thank you so much. You don't know what this means to me."

Then she squeezed her stepmother. "Besides," she said, dimpling roguishly, "why should the boys have all the adventures?"

She didn't see her father quickly look out the window.

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It was late in the night when Rosemary woke up. She blinked her eyes in the dim glow that suffused the room. Rolling over she saw that John was beside her with a Bible spread open on his lap, but she knew he wasn't reading. He was staring at it, but his finger was resting on one spot on the page and his eyes had an unfocused look to them. Anyway it was too dim for reading

"She's a daughter you can be proud of, John."

"I've never been prouder of her," he replied. Rosemary saw he kept his eyes on the page.

She propped herself up on one elbow. "But it wasn't like this when Jerry and Carl went--you weren't like this."

He closed the Bible and put it on the beside table.

"You know better than anybody what I went through. But you're right. This is different. You expect your sons to go to war. But it's different with a daughter--it's unexpected to send a daughter off to the wars."

"But there have been women in wartime before," Rosemary tried to be rational. "Look at Crimea, the Boer War, the Civil War in America..."

"It's easy to look at it like that--when you're talking about strangers--in foreign lands--a long time ago. But it's much harder to look at when it's your own daughter. Besides, if she goes to war I can't protect her."

"Yes, but remember, she's not exactly going to war the same as the boys. She won't be in the trenches like the soldiers, for example."

"But there's still a chance she could get hurt."

"Oh, John, you take a chance of getting hurt just by living. Even here in Glen St. Mary."

He had no answer for that. He took his wife's hand and held it for a long time.

"The manse will seem so empty now," he said quietly.

"Yes it will," answered Rosemary, also quietly. "First Jerry gone, then Carl, and now Faith. But we still have Una and Bruce. Una doesn't seem inclined to go to war. And Bruce is just a baby--at least to me, he's a baby."

With a muffled groan he threw himself into Rosemary's arms. He took one deep, protracted, shuddering breath and gripped her so hard it hurt. _Bruce would grow up so fast_, he was thinking. _The others did_. He didn't want to say such a thing to his wife, however. He neither moved nor spoke, just held her in that strong, painful grip.

"John?" She whispered after some time had gone by. "John, what can I do? How can I make this easier for you?"

He lifted his head and looked into her eyes. Letting go of her, he shifted over to his own pillow, but he pulled her head onto his shoulder and stroked her hair. "You've been my stay through all this. I couldn't imagine going through this war without you by my side. I don't need you to do anything more. Just knowing you're here to come home to is enough."

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A little group gathered at the station to see Faith off.

Anne Blythe gave her a pair of bandage scissors as a parting gift--Faith would need them during her training and afterwards. As she hugged Faith she thought that someday she would be proud to call this fair, brave girl "daughter-in-law".

Ellen Douglas kissed her cordially and wished her luck, but Norman Douglas grabbed her in a bear hug. "See here, Red Rose, when you do meet up with the Huns be sure and give 'em he--ouch! Don't pinch me, Ellen, I was just saying _give 'em heck_," but he winked at Faith wickedly, who grinned back at him.

Rosemary hugged and kissed her fiercely, Una's eyes were bright with unshed tears and Bruce nearly broke her back leaping into her arms for extra good-bye hugs and kisses. Rosemary needed to pry him away from his oldest sister.

But her father drew her aside from the others. He wanted to talk to her alone.

"We're all right behind you in this and we support what you're doing," he began.

"Thank you, Father," she smiled gently at him.

"But Faith, I'm afraid for you, too. I'm afraid you have no idea what you'll be facing. Oh, sure you understand in the abstract the horror of war. However, your imagination may be no match for what you'll really experience."

"You're right, of course, however, my brothers faced it not knowing what they would actually experience," she replied low.

He drew her closer and touched her forehead with his own.

"No matter what happens, you can always come home. Any time you want, Faith, you can always come _home_."

Faith was touched--she had no reply for this. With all the exuberance and optimism of youth she felt confident in her ability to face whatever the war threw at her, but she was still glad to hear her father say it.

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Off to England went Faith, anxious to start her nurse's training and anxious to strike a blow against Germany. Of course, she would also be closer to Jem there.

She took to training with joy, eager to learn everything her instructors wanted to teach her. She loved her blue ankle-length uniform complete with voluminous white apron and white cap that wrapped snuggly around her head--loved it despite the stiff collar and cuffs. She felt a surge of pride and patriotism every time she stepped onto the ward at the beginning of her shift and a sense of a job well done when the next shift relieved her. She was proud of the knowledge she possessed, her ability to save lives--at least sometimes.

She honestly didn't mind the sights and smells that assaulted her daily--mangled bodies, amputated limbs, suppurating wounds had no power to sicken her or deter her from her purpose. In fact, the worse the injury the more convinced Faith was of the need for her to be here, the rightness of her decision.

COUNTY MEATH, IRELAND

LATE MAY 1918

Ralph hadn't had too much trouble making his father see his point of view. Or at least he met with less resistance than he had anticipated. He came home from seminary just long enough to announce his intention to volunteer with the Red Cross war effort and to pack for England.

"Are you really sure you want to do this son? We only see you during your holidays and I know your mother longs to visit with you."

"I know and I'm sorry. But the War is going on _now_, and now is when I'm needed."

His father shrugged, unimpressed. "I don't see why _you're_ needed. And in England of all places. As soon as you open your mouth to speak you'll be looked down on as an Irishman. You'll have less status even than the Canadians and Australians."

"I want to do my bit."

"I still don't see why," his father continued stubbornly. "Your 'bit' won't be appreciated. Have you forgotten what England has done to us? Have you forgotten the persecutions and the murders, and the way they stole our lands? If Mother England needs manpower, she can just bloody well pull her troops out of Ireland and use _them_. I for one wouldn't be sorry to see the Kaiser marching down the Strand."

Ralph waited patiently until his father was finished his tirade. He wasn't shocked by anything his father said. He'd heard it often enough, in various forms, from his fellow Irishmen, both in and out of seminary. There was an underground, subversive lack of support for England in the war. After all, 'the enemy of my enemy is my friend'--at least in theory. There was even some grim satisfaction to be derived from the setbacks England suffered. Ralph had no great love for England either, and privately thought there might even be some validity to the dark accusation that the colonies' soldiers were seen as little better than cannon fodder by Britain. But Ralph followed international politics closely and believed the Kaiser of Germany was a dangerous man. He had discussed the subject thoroughly with his spiritual advisor, who was also his academic advisor. And because the older man realized the depth of Ralph's understanding, he did everything in his power to encourage his interest in international affairs. Secretly, the old priest believed that of all his students, Ralph was the most likely to wear a cardinal's biretta one day. Even now, at his young age, when Ralph spoke of the international situation, the other seminarians respectfully paid attention and the priests were impressed with his astute assessments.

"I'm not doing this for England, Father. I'm doing this because the war is exacting a terrible toll in human suffering. I feel called to help relieve that suffering. That's the bit I want to do."

"I think I'm understanding. You want to comfort the afflicted. Well, go comfort some afflicted people, but don't be expecting appreciation from England or approval from your mother." But with that Ralph's father gave his own approval.

Ralph's mother was devastated.

"I will never forgive you, Ralph, never." And her eyes grew small as she turned away from him in disgust.

"Mum, please, I have to do this."

"Do what? Destroy your family? Because you will, Ralph, you will destroy us if you do this thing."

"Now Mum, be reasonable. How will my volunteering with the Red Cross destroy our family?"

"It's not the Red Cross. Not _just_ the Red Cross," she corrected herself. "I'll pass over for the moment the fact that you'd rather serve England than spend your last summer holiday before you're ordained with us."

"You're still angry about my becoming a priest."

She snorted contemptuously.

"Mum, it's always been understood that the priesthood is my destiny. It's family tradition that the second son in our family enters the priesthood, if he's so inclined. And I'm so inclined."

"You always do manage to do what you want, don't you, Ralph? But look at our family--we're almost died out. You and your brother are the only true De Bricassarts left. We need new blood. We need more babies. But no. All you can think about is your precious vocation."

"But I don't want to get married. Besides, I never met anybody I even wanted to court."

She shook her head angrily. "Oh, I know you. You didn't even look. You're so full of your own ambition you can't see that other people want and need, too. You don't love anybody but yourself. You'll end in sacrificing everybody around you for your stupid ambition."

"That's not fair, Mother, I do love you."

She peered over her shoulder at him with a sickly smile. "Of course you do, Ralph. But...you love God more. Go. Just go." And she turned her back on him. That was the last time he'd seen her.

V.A.D. HOSPITAL, ENGLAND

EARLY MAY 1918

Faith served at the hospital for nearly a year before the blow fell.

She was sitting in the mess hall with the other nurses when she opened the innocent-looking but fateful missive. Laughing and talking as she opened the envelope (for it had been in a pile of her other mail), she'd read it to herself first, silently. Then, because the words failed to register, she read it out loud, "Jem Blythe was captured." She calmly placed the paper on the table in front of her and stared at it as if she'd never seen paper before.

"Oh, Faith, I'm sorry," said the nurse sitting next to her and she gave Faith a sympathetic squeeze.

"Don't touch me," said Faith, her voice hard, her eyes lowered. Then she said it again, "Don't touch me," although the other nurses had already drawn back from her slightly.

They'd looked at each other cautiously, those other nurses. _Faith Meredith harsh, prickly?_ But they honored her request to be left alone. Grief could take the strangest forms, they knew, and there was no hurrying it. She would have to work this out in her own way and with any luck she would find the strength to endure and revert back to the friendly, laughing girl they knew and loved.

And they were right, as far as it went. The next morning Faith arose with a brittle, pleasant air. Jem or no Jem, she had a job to do and she was going to do it. By the end of that week she was almost her normal self. But something faintly abrasive remained in her personality, something that hadn't been there before, something that kept people at a distance even as she tried to resume normal life.

Her friends and colleagues didn't know, however, about the night she spent immediately after word of Jem's capture. Ignoring the nurses' curfew, not caring that if she were caught, she could face expulsion from the V.A.D., she managed to slip out of the dormitory. Driven by some deep impulse but protected by some deep vestige of common sense, she walked around and around the perimeter of the hospital grounds, dodging the guards, keeping to the shadows, driving herself to near exhaustion from trying to escape the fearful images in her head--images of soldiers beaten, starved, dying.

Eventually she found herself in the most secluded area of the grounds--an almost forgotten grotto that used to be a stately flower garden but had been allowed to grow feral. She sat on a crumbling stone bench and put her face in her hands. But then her thoughts caught her up. Putting her head down on the bench, Faith started to cry, to sob noisily, to wail, louder and louder, although she muffled the sound by biting down hard on her knuckles. She cried out of fear and anguish for Jem, for all the captured soldiers. She cried for herself and the fragile dreams and future she and Jem had joyfully imagined. She cried out of rage against the Germans--a ferocious, killing rage that only had release in tears. She cried for Jem's family--they'd already suffered so much...

She cried until she was almost sick, but when she stood up she was clear-headed and knew she had to return to the dormitory before she was caught. She also found she had a second wind.

Back in her room, she wrote a carefully crafted letter to her family. It was a lovely piece of fiction--full of silly lies about her optimistic hope for Jem's release. And when she looked it over, she decided that it was convincing enough to fool her parents into believing that she was bearing up just fine. After all, thought Faith wearily, nothing would be served by making her family and friends worry.

It would be the first of many such letters.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: Yadda, yadda, yadda…not L.M. Montgomery or Colleen McCullough…Blah, blah blah…don't own the characters…. **

**Thanks for the reviews. I'm glad you're enjoying the story—I'm enjoying writing it!**

V.A.D. HOSPITAL, ENGLAND

JUNE 1918

"Say Beautiful, you got a fella?" The young soldier asked as he peeked out over the privacy screen.

But Faith refused to take the bait. "Pants. In the ash can. Now." She replied sternly.

The private sighed heavily and she heard him fumble with his buckle. "Drat these cooties. Don't know how I could have caught them here, so far away from the front."

Faith didn't know either, and furthermore, she wasn't about to be drawn into a discussion about it with him. As soon as Ralph told her the young man was doing a great deal of scratching, she'd examined him herself and brought him to the isolation room for a thorough de-lousing. And straightaway she had assigned her nurses to examine the other patients. They all felt the weight of their responsibility to keep the ward absolutely clean. One affected patient could infest the entire ward--it was easily spread through the sharing of sheets and towels and clothing. This soldier's clothing would be boiled, along with all the linens. The laundresses would not be overjoyed with the extra work they would have to do, but it didn't matter. Not only were "cooties" uncomfortable and unpleasant, they also spread trench fever.

She heard the thud of pants landing in the metal can. Then he straightened up and grinned at her over the screen.

"So anyway, you didn't answer my question."

Faith continued making notations on the chart and didn't look up. "The sooner you undress the sooner you can start scrubbing with that lye soap. Sergeant here will help you with any hard to reach places."

"And you'll leave me to take care of another patient. You call that persuasion?" He said while sighing heavily, crossing his eyes and making Faith almost smile. He was forever teasing the nurses in this light, affable way. Of course he'd gone through the valley of humiliation when Faith had to examine him minutely for lice, but he recovered his good humor quickly enough.

She didn't dare encourage him, however. "I could leave right now and you'd only have the sergeant to talk to," she said archly.

"Don't go, Beautiful, I'll be good. Of course," he said, reverting to his previous topic, "if you were my girl, I'd take you dancing every Saturday night. Even with this bum leg." It wasn't said with bitterness or as a bid for sympathy, but Faith's heart contracted with pity. His "bum leg" was an above-the-knee amputation that Faith knew was irritated and painful. She knew he tossed and turned with the pain at night, even with the high doses of morphine he was given. Nor had they been able to fit him for an artificial leg yet because the incision hadn't healed properly. He hobbled about on crutches.

Faith couldn't escape the thought--what if it were Jem suffering with an amputated limb? Wouldn't she be glad to know he was being taken care of by people who took the time to talk to him and to listen? Wouldn't she be glad to know that at right this moment he was safe and joking with some nurse about a bunch of nonsense? Well, maybe not joking with a _pretty_ nurse. Then she felt a lump in her throat. No--to have him safe and alive she could even overlook his joking with a pretty nurse.

"Hurry along, Lawrence," she said softly. "We have a lot of work to do around here." She could hear him finish getting undressed and she handed him the bar of strong lye soap over the top of the screen and gave him instructions. The sergeant would help him with the hard to reach places--and with the kerosene rinse that had to follow. The treatment was corrosive to the skin, but it did the job.

"Say, before you go, Beautiful, where are you from?" He asked.

"Prince Edward Island in Canada."

He slapped his forehead. "I knew it! I knew you talked funny."

"Excuse me?"

"You remember yesterday? When I asked you when supper was served and you said 'about five o'clock'? Only you said it 'a-boat' instead of 'about'. You know, 'ow' like in ouch!"

She sighed sharply. "I'm leaving now. And if you don't stop talking and start washing, I'll make sure you get _'ouch'_." She pronounced the last word very distinctly.

He grinned impudently at her. "Don't you mean 'oach'? As in 'oh'?"

Faith left, smothering a smile as she went.

She paused for a moment on the threshold of the ward, which was currently in an uproar over the pediculus outbreak. Everywhere sheets were being stripped from beds, carefully folded as they went to avoid shaking the insects out onto the floor or onto the nurses. Privacy screens were set up at various locations around the large room and Faith could hear the soldiers' muffled exclamations of outrage over the indignity of being examined. The laundry carts were filling rapidly with the offending linens and the laundresses, as predicted, were wearing expressions of disgust and annoyance.

As Faith watched, she saw Ralph helping one of the nurses finish stripping a bed. She waited until he was done then waylaid him as he was moving to another bed to start the process all over again.

"De Bricassart, thank you for bringing that soldier's condition to my attention. It could have spread through the entire ward before we knew it."

Ralph nodded and shrugged. "I'm just doing what I came here for. And all I did was to pass along my personal observation. It's you nurses who are doing the most important part of the job right now."

Faith looked at him narrowly. That was another perfect, diplomatic answer. Some volunteers would have been puffed up with pride to detect an outbreak before the nurses did, but Ralph didn't seem to want applause or even attention.

"Not much misses you, does it?" She asked.

Ralph shrugged. "It was obvious he was uncomfortable. It was also obvious he didn't want anybody to know about his condition--he always waited until the nurses' backs were turned before he'd scratch." He smiled wryly. "I suppose he didn't expect me to notice...or tell."

Faith nodded. "They're running low on lye. Would you take some back to the isolation room?"

Ralph found the soap and when he went in, the sergeant was helping the soldier, now looking pink and shining clean, into his clothes. The sergeant was in the middle of a story.

"...And that's why she's like that, lad. Her fiancé was captured by the Germans. As far as we know he's still a prisoner of war. But nobody knows for sure."

"I didn't know that," said the soldier. "Poor Nurse Meredith."

"I didn't know that, either," remarked Ralph.

The sergeant turned to look at him. "Yes, well she doesn't make a habit of talking about it, now. But it preys on her mind. If you had known her before it happened, lads...she was the happiest, most cheerful girl you'd ever want to know. But now..." he shrugged.

"The last of the men are being checked right now," Ralph said, changing the subject. "Where should I put this?" And he held out the bars of lye soap.

The sergeant grunted and pointed to the table. Lawrence was still thinking about Faith's story.

But Faith was not thinking about herself just then--she had too many other things to do. The mattresses and pillows had to be taken outside and sprayed with kerosene and insecticidal dip--thankfully, there were no rugs to be concerned about. Then they scrubbed the floor with dip. After the floor dried they swept up any residue and tossed the sweepings into the fire.

The entire procedure took them well into the second shift, but none of the day nurses or volunteers left until all the necessary work was done. But even with the hard work of two shifts, it was late that night when the soldiers were allowed back into their beds. Then all the nurses and volunteers had to treat themselves just in case they had become infested while caring for the soldiers.

The next day when Faith was making her rounds, Private Lawrence grabbed her hand. "Hey Sister, I'm sorry about your fiancé. If I could, I'd go right back to the Continent and find him for you."

Tears pricked at Faith's eyes, but she dared not cry why she was on duty. It was her job to be strong for the wounded. Plenty of time to cry tonight.

"Thank you, Soldier."

"When this war is over, if you're ever in Brooklyn, you look me up. And God willing, you can bring your fiancé, too. I'd like to meet the lucky man who won _your_ heart."

Faith looked down at the soldier and nodded. He was so boyish, so _young_, with his curly, sandy hair--and not to mention he was freckled beyond measure. But fine and brave, too. She thought she wouldn't mind knowing how he turned out, someday, long after the war was over.

It was not the first time a soldier expressed the wish that he could find Jem for her--the hospital was a tight, insular community and it was very hard to keep secrets--but it never failed to touch her heart. They were all so dedicated to winning this war, so sincere about wanting to find their fallen comrades. For they understood that each soldier was connected to every other soldier and the loss of one weakened them all. She was proud to take care of men like this.

But their connectedness was part of Faith's problem. She couldn't help but see Jem's face in every patient she cared for and she couldn't stop imagining that Jem was as sick and injured as these boys. And when they died, well, that was worst of all...She understood why people sometimes turned to booze or other distractions to forget. The V.A.D. provided dances and entertainments for the nurses and volunteers and any soldiers well enough to attend and it wasn't just for simple recreation. These diversions were necessities. Sometimes one just needed the oblivion of mindless distraction to face the terrible day-by-day realities of war...


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: Yadda, yadda, yadda…not L.M. Montgomery or Colleen McCullough…Blah, blah blah…don't own the characters…. **

**Happy summer, everybody! Let the wild rumpus start!!!**

Faith Meredith shut off the faucet and replaced the towel on the bar. She pressed her hands into her back, arching slightly until she felt the muffled _pop_ in her lower spine. Her back seemed to hurt more frequently these days. More soldiers were pouring in everyday, needing care, needing lifting. Tonight she would lie on her back on the wooden floor of her room, feet resting up on her mattress in an attempt to bring her vertebrae back into alignment. But for now she would move among the beds and change dressings.

The day had begun inauspiciously. Faith had been in the middle of taking report from the offgoing night nurse.

"You'll need to pay extra attention to Private McInerny," the nurse was saying as they stood at the foot of the bed of the man in question. "I just finished sponging him off again. He's been complaining how hot it is--it makes him sweat profusely."

Then, as if on cue, Private McInerny's body was racked with a harsh, moist cough. He put a towel over his face to spit into, and when he lowered the towel after his fit had passed, the two nurses were horrified to see that his secretions were bloody.

They looked at each other only a moment before springing into action, but they were both thinking the same thing--night sweats and blood tinged sputum--classic signs of pulmonary tuberculosis.

Donning masks and special gowns, they hastily removed McInerny to the isolation ward to await a doctor's examination. And in their hearts they were praying fervently that it hadn't spread...

The procedure of transferring the soldier put Faith back for more than an hour, and she had spent the rest of the day trying to catch up her baths and medications. It was afternoon by the time she able to start her treatments. And now it was getting close to visiting hours.

Waving away a fly that was buzzing lazily by her head--_Must have come in through a hole in the screen, I'll have to get one of the soldiers to fix it_--she pushed her cart through the aisle between the two neat rows of beds. It was early in the afternoon--the time that all the hospital staff seemed to converge on the ward. Surgeons were there, checking the status of their patients; the Army officers, checking on the morale of their men; the laundresses; the volunteers; the odd member of the kitchen staff, coming to search for this plate or that serving dish that somehow never made it back to the kitchen for washing; the occasional visitor who managed slip past the soldier receptionist at the front lobby (it was too early for visiting hours), and the nurses--always the nurses.

Faith slowed down and maneuvered the cart between two of the beds and smiled kindly at the soldier she was about to take care of. She reached into her jar of methylated spirits for her bandage scissors and one of the long tweezers known as forceps. After carefully wiping the antiseptic solution off her instruments (and turned a little bit away, she discretely took a deep breath as she did so), she proceeded to cut down the bandages.

Faith was trained not to react with horror at any sights that met her eyes on the ward. It would never do if the patient suspected that his nurse was disgusted by any part of his care. He would become angry, or worse, ashamed, and if he was already suffering badly enough, it might worsen his mental state, even to the point of losing the will to live. If trained nurses and doctors couldn't bear to look at him, after all, how would his family and friends react? It was up to the nurse to be matter-of-fact about the patient's condition, neither pretending it didn't exist nor giving it so much attention that it became morbid.

Faith was a true believer in this philosophy. These soldiers were _her_ patients. It was _her_ duty to do everything in her power to make them well. Insofar as she was able, she treated their minds by giving them respect and dignity and she treated their bodies by the physical care she gave.

However, she didn't cease to become human the minute she put on her uniform. Although she was used to sights and smells that would have horrified her family and friends back home, she was not immured to everything she encountered. Therefore, she had developed an arsenal of techniques to deal with the difficult cases.

She learned, for instance, that in the case of an odorous, suppurating wound, before she removed the old bandage, she could take a deep breath of fresh air and hold it inconspicuously. That would buy her enough time to remove the bandage and throw it into the waste can (_thank heaven for cellucotton disposable bandages!_), observe the wound for worsening or infection, and do a mental calculation of how much fresh dressing would be needed.

Then as she cut the new bandage to size, she could exhale. Casually, as if she were merely looking around the room, she could turn her face away from the patient and take another deep inhale of fresh air. Then, holding her breath again, she could quickly put the new dressing on. After that, she could exhale and breathe normally again, with the patient none the wiser.

This patient's wound was draining profusely. She gathered up a handful of sphagnum moss--which would absorb the drainage--and cut the fresh bandage to fit. But as she allowed her eyes to stray around the room while she took her surreptitious second deep breath, she spied something that made her bristle. It was Ralph.

Ralph was delivering mail and packages today and he was busy doing his assignment just as he was ordered, but Faith noticed that although he smiled and spoke a few words with the soldiers as he made his deliveries, he wasn't entirely paying attention to his work.

It was true--and Ralph would have been the first to admit it. He did pause and talk to the soldiers as he made his way around the room, but in between beds, in between soldiers, he kept one eye on a man who was working his way among the sick and wounded. He was a chaplain, a common sight in an army hospital, but this particular chaplain was a priest.

Dressed in sober black with a purple stole around his neck, the priest moved among the patients, stopping at every bed. He administered the last oil and viaticum to the dying Catholics. To the others, he offered words of encouragement and offered to pray with them. Regardless of religion he did this--some of soldiers were Catholics, but there were also Jews and Protestants, and some who professed no belief at all. But he offered this--what was called "ghostly comfort" in an earlier time--to one and all.

Faith didn't see, but Ralph did, the myriad reactions the priest elicited from the troops. He was too far away to hear the individual conversations, but he could see the soldiers' facial expressions. Some were genuinely comforted, others were blatantly skeptical, but the priest persevered in his task. Nothing was going to divert him from visiting each and every soldier. He had watched the other chaplains, too, and they all did this--visited each soldier. But Ralph took an especial interest in the priest.

_One more year, _thought Ralph. _Then I'll be able to do that. Maybe if the War hasn't ended by then, I could apply to be made a chaplain._

Faith, who didn't know the direction of Ralph's thoughts, was irritated at his lack of attention to his job, even though he hadn't made any mistakes. Taking a breath and holding it, she applied the moss to the wound and wrapped the bandage around it. While she still held the leg elevated above the mattress, she removed the towels that had been placed underneath it to protect the sheets. They were wet now, and she stuffed them into a laundry bag hanging from her cart. She replaced them with clean, fresh towels, smoothing them with only one hand with a practiced technique. Then she lowered the leg gently on the mattress. She pulled up the sheet to the soldier's waist and smiled at him before she continued her rounds.

As Faith now observed Ralph more closely, she realized what had drawn his attention. _She_ didn't have much time for chaplain-watching, but she supposed it was sort of interesting to see. She had noticed that each chaplain had his own particular ritual, each according to his own denomination. And occasionally she would have a chuckle to herself--what would Miss Cornelia have thought, seeing nice Presbyterian boys having their souls' welfare in the hands of their Methodist chaplain? The Protestant chaplains tended to dress the same, but the Catholic chaplain was visible by his stole and the rabbi chaplain, who came very infrequently, by his yarmulke.

But then Faith remembered how busy they all were and became angry with Ralph all over again. Between breakfast time and late afternoon, the ward was a bustling, busy place. For late afternoon was given over to visiting hours and they had to hurry to get the soldiers medicated, comfortable, and presentable for the visitors. It was in the nature of a grim joke that no matter what state the patient was in, they could always pull the sheet up over him and he would look just fine to his family and friends. But heaven forbid they should peek under the sheets...!

Therefore--because she decided that if he had enough time to watch what other people were doing he could be made to do something useful--she felt no remorse when she demanded Ralph push the dirty linen cart down to the laundry even though they both knew perfectly well the laundresses would come up for it.

"Right away, Miss Meredith," he replied mildly. That was the other thing that annoyed her. His attitude was too perfect. To the soldiers he was respectful, man-to-man. To the nurses he was courteous and almost courtly. But no matter how rude or bossy she was to him, he never displayed any irritation. Furthermore, there was nothing servile in his attitude. He followed her directions with an attitude that whatever she demanded from him must be reasonable and that he couldn't possibly lose his dignity by acting in accordance with her. It did work, she reflected grudgingly. He never lost his aristocratic bearing no matter what menial tasks he turned his hand to.

But Faith didn't have time to dwell on her own irritation--she was too worried. Nobody seemed to have heard the results of Private McInerny's examination. Nobody knew if he indeed were suffering from tuberculosis. If he were, he would be sent to a sanitarium for fresh air treatment. There was little else that could be done for TB. Some doctors claimed their patients had success with a drug called "tuberculin", but other doctors scoffed, saying that those patients would have recovered in any case. She heard that some scientists were working on an inoculation that could prevent the disease, but right now there was nothing that could be done.

She dreaded the idea of becoming ill with TB, being sent away to be isolated from her family, possibly to die. If Jem came home--no! --_when_ Jem came home, she wanted to be well and healthy so they could begin their lives together. When Jem came home. When.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: Yadda, yadda, yadda…not L.M. Montgomery or Colleen McCullough…Blah, blah blah…don't own the characters….**

**Sorry it took so long to update. Went on vacation and stuff like that. Then I had to do some research for my beloved X-File story. And of course I HAD to finish the last Harry Potter book (I won't reveal the ending!!!). But I hope this chapter was worth the wait!!**

_Screeeech!!!_

Faith was thrown back against the seat of the ambulance as it lurched forward in her inexperienced hands. She was learning how to drive under the tutelage of a long-suffering ambulance driver named Johnson who had been saddled with the duty of teaching any nurse who wished to learn. Unfortunately, quite a few of them had never even ridden in an automobile before the War. Faith Meredith was among their number.

"This pedal! This pedal! That lever there and this pedal here!" The older man was issuing rapid-fire instructions.

"I know. I know," Faith's voice had risen an octave in her frustration. She was frowning with concentration, her head was aching from being screamed at and her stomach was clenched in a knot.

"Then do it, Meredith!"

"Stop _yelling_ at me!"

"_Do it_!"

Faith tried to follow his instructions, but wound up causing a most ghastly grinding sound to come from the motor.

"Not that one--" and he choked back some of his more colorful epithets, relieving his feelings by muttering under his breath. "...stupid...women...drivers...shouldn't be allowed..."

Enraged, Faith slammed on the brakes, throwing both of them forward into the dash.

"Don't you _dare_ call me _stupid_! Teaching us _women_ how to drive was your idea, Mr. Johnson!"

The older man glared at her as he settled himself back into the seat. "It was most certainly _not_ my idea. The bosses _made_ me do this. Young ladies nowadays are way too impudent. Back when I was a boy, girls were taught to be demure and listen when they were given instructions by people who knew more than they."

"Back when you were a boy you probably wore a powdered wig."

"You see? You see?" Johnson fumed. "_That's_ why you shouldn't be allowed to drive--you let your emotions get in the way of your judgment."

"Well fine. Why don't I just quit? I _can_, you know. I don't have to sit here and take this!"

"Of course you can quit. Nobody's stopping you. But," He crossed his arms and looked at her cannily. "I hear you want to be reassigned to the Continent. They'll be more likely to assign you there if you know how to drive."

Faith put her head back against the seat, suitably chastened. It was true. They were calling for VAD nurses on the battlefronts to drive ambulances, freeing the soldiers for fighting. Faith hoped desperately she would be chosen. Even though her rational mind told her she would have no better luck locating Jem over there than she did over here, she liked the idea of being physically closer to him. And Mr. Johnson knew it. In the small hospital where she worked everybody knew everybody else's business.

She took a deep breath. "I'm calm now," she said with as much dignity as she could muster.

"Then let's start from the beginning. First, you..."

"But I liked you better when you were only the ambulance driver and not my teacher," she couldn't resist adding.

Johnson hastily smothered a grin.

rtRTrtRTrtRTrt

When they were safely back at the garage, Faith handed the keys back to Johnson and let herself out.

As he watched her step out onto the gravel driveway, he thought she had done better with her first lesson than most of the nurses he trained, but he wasn't about to feed her vanity by telling her that.

"Just remember what we talked about," he said, gruffly.

Frida, a nurse who worked on the same shift with Faith the previous day, was waiting for her and they walked together to their dormitory to change. Both girls were on the rotating shift, and today was the day their assignments changed to the evening hours.

"They sent out McInerny this morning," Frida said. "He should be at the the sanatorium even as we speak."

Faith froze. "Then it really was TB?"

Frida nodded. "The X-ray showed characteristic light areas. Then the cultures confirmed it."

Faith sighed. She had seen it for herself once, back in her training, what the mycobacteria that caused consumption looked like under the microscope. "So they'll be watching all of us closely to see if we've been infected.

Frida nodded again. "McInerny got sent for that new open-air treatment. His 'hospital' will be a low-slung building with a roof and only three walls. Fancy only having three walls! It would be like living in a doll's house."

rtRTrtRTrtRTrt

Before their shift started, Matron gathered all the nurses together to remind them what they were to look for in themselves and their patients in light of McInerny's condition. Cough with bloody secretions, fever and sweats, weight loss. They all listened patiently even though they knew the symptoms by heart.

And because it was fresh in her mind, Faith found herself consciously looking for symptoms in her patients. As the days passed, she would continue to watch for anything untoward, but not with the extra awareness she had now. But nobody was exhibiting any symptoms tonight and Faith settled her patients in to sleep.

"I hear you're taking driving lessons," said Private Lawrence slyly as she gave him his nighttime back rub.

"I think it's everybody's duty to take any training that's offered in wartime--to be useful," she replied primly.

"Good for you, Sister," he said, but he couldn't keep a smile out of his voice and Faith heard it.

"I suppose you agree with Johnson that women shouldn't learn how to drive."

"Nope, you're wrong. I think driving lessons are an excellent idea. After all, if you see any Huns while driving that ambulance, you can just run 'em over."

Faith stared at him open-mouthed, too surprised to feel anger. That wretch of a Johnson! There really were no secrets in this hospital. Lawrence pushed himself up on his elbow and winked at her and she laughed, even as she shook her head at him and bade him lay down.

"You really want to be sent to the Continent, Sister?" He asked more seriously as he rested his chin on his stacked hands.

"I hope they send me."

He held up crossed fingers so she could see them. "I hope so too."

But Faith secretly though he needed good luck more than she. It worried her the way his stump wasn't healing properly. The surgeons were positive that there was an infection in it, but unfortunately, there weren't any medicines one could take that would destroy an infection. Then today he barely wanted to get out of bed he was so tired. And did he seem to be getting a little puffy? She gently squeezed his hands and remaining foot. She couldn't leave the indents of her fingers in his skin, but her experienced hands told her something was different. He coughed once and she looked at him sharply. All his symptoms were the same since the last time the surgeon had seen him that afternoon, but she was still uneasy. Uncle Norman had told her that his animals seemed to know ahead of time when a storm was coming--they grew restive and huddled close together. Faith now believed she knew what they felt like.

rtRTrtRTrtRTrt

Eventually all the soldiers were settled comfortably into bed and Faith had finished giving end-of-shift report to the oncoming nurse when they heard a loud crash. Turning quickly towards the sound, they saw Private Lawrence sitting bolt upright in bed with a look of panic on his face. He had knocked everything on his night table to the ground as he flailed his arms in his distress.

"Nurse! Come quick! He's seizing--or something! Help!" The soldier in the bed next to him was calling out as he struggled to his feet to help his sick comrade.

Suddenly the room was galvanized into action. On went the lights that had been dimmed for sleeping. Soldiers were struggling to sit up in bed, wanting to see what was happening. The volunteers who had been milling around the door waiting to be dismissed by the nurses were suddenly alert and waiting for directions.

Faith rushed to the soldier's bedside and examined him quickly. He was lying back against his pillow again and hIs breathing was labored and rattling. He coughed up a frothy foam. But after his coughing fit passed, he grasped her arms and his eyes were wide and beseeching and he whispered, "Help. Please."

Faith whipped her head around and barked an order to the closest volunteer. "Get this man's surgeon now. And alert the operating suite." She and another nurse bent over the soldier to loosen his clothes and together they lifted him into a sitting position with pillows behind his back. A third nurse ran for the emergency equipment and brought it to the bedside.

After what seemed to be an eternity but was actually only a couple minutes, the surgeon arrived and started issuing orders of his own and Faith worked feverishly beside him, handing him instruments and medications. For a long time they worked over the now unconscious soldier locked in a life or death struggle.

But after what seemed another eternity the doctor sighed heavily and pulled the sheet over the soldier's face. He straightened up and peered into Faith's sorrowful eyes and put a hand on her shoulder. He shook his head and sighed again.

"But why?" She whispered. "What happened? He was fine just an hour ago. Well maybe not _fine_, but..."

"It was most likely a clot."

"But a clot wouldn't act so quickly, would it?" She asked despairingly even though she knew the answer.

"If it lodged in just the right place it could. And don't forget he had other complications. He had extensive wounds...he was very much weakened by them...and his heart gave out. You saw that he had a large amount of fluid in his lungs..." He was musing to himself as much as to her.

The night shift nurse stepped forward and patted Faith, too.

"You're off duty now. Go. I'll take over here."

Dazed and disoriented, Faith walked between the rows of beds, not really seeing as the patients settled themselves back in for the night. Her heart was still pounding from the excitement and she felt a little sick. And she went back to the same thought that had worn a groove in her mind these past weeks. That could have been Jem. That could have been Jem. For all she knew, Jem _was_ dead right now...her eyes blurred.

She felt a gentle hand on her elbow and looked up to see Ralph.

"This way, Faith," he murmured quietly and steered her out the door of the ward and down the corridor to the empty staff room. He turned up the light, sat her down on a chair and poured her a cup of tea.

"Drink this," he ordered.

"I never get used to it," she whispered as she reached for the cup with shaking hands. "I never get used to it when they die."

"I don't either," he replied. "And I believe in Heaven."

"Me too."

"But it doesn't make it easier right now," he prompted.

"It seems so unfair--a young man like that with his whole life ahead of him..."

"It's a bloody struggle--and our enemy is powerful and seemingly tireless. I need to believe that we will win out in the end. That belief gets me through the day." He looked into her hollow eyes. "Pardon my running on. You don't need to hear my philosophy right now. You do need some rest and a good night's sleep."

She sipped the tea and peered at Ralph over the rim of her cup. Why should he care what happened to her or how she felt? His eyes held the same kind, aloof expression she was used to seeing in the way he looked at everybody and she realized his kindness wasn't something directed at her specifically. He would have done this for anybody he saw suffering.

"Do you need anything else before I go?" He asked as he placed a hand on the door.

She thought for a moment then shook her head _no_--what he'd done was enough. After that first brief exchange, he didn't try to force his company on her or try to make her talk. She appreciated it.

"Then I'll leave. But I'll make sure you're not disturbed," he assured her. "Turn down the lights before you go."

He was almost out the door when she spoke. "You've been very good to me, Ralph."

He paused at the threshold and nodded gravely. "What did you expect? Aren't we all in this together? If we don't help each other out, who will? And then we will stand no chance against Germany. You would have done the same." He shrugged. "Besides, I like to know the people I work with."

"_To bear each others' burdens is to fulfill the law of Christ_..." she murmured. It seemed she had heard that phrase in a sermon her father preached once.

He nodded absently at her quote before he spoke. "But you seem surprised, Faith, that somebody would bear your burdens when you needed it."

_I'm surprised that somebody who knows I dislike them came to my aid_, she thought, but out loud all she said was, "I suppose I shouldn't be. Surprised, I mean. Except that I'm a nurse. It's my duty to _give_ help. Maybe I think I should be above _needing_ help--that I shouldn't break down and let others serve me. Maybe that's silly, but it's how I feel."

"_It is in giving that we receive_," he quipped. "But no, I'm only smiling because that's a noble sentiment and one I admire. In fact, that's what I like about you, Faith, your willingness to bear the burden without complaining or shirking."

His candid statement disarmed her. She was not used to hearing such sentiments spoken openly. Yet as she searched his face it was clear that there was nothing improper or lecherous in his attitude, nothing to make her feel that he wanted more from her than simple, common courtesy. And possibly friendship. But somehow she knew he would be kind to her no matter how she felt about him.

**A//N: I don't know if there are any HCP's reading this, but if anybody wants to guess what Private Lawrence's dx was, go right ahead. I wrote it with a particular DD in mind. **


	6. Chapter 6

**PLEASE don't make me explain yet again how I'm not L.M. Montgomery or Colleen McCullough…**

**A/N: I just wanted to pause a moment here and express my gratitude to all you lovely readers. I'm pleased (and a little stunned) at the enthusiastic response this story has received. Not only are the reviews wonderful, but for days after I post chapters, I'm inundated with favs and story alert notices. I didn't really expect all that because this story is kind of offbeat and a crossover into the bargain, LOL! The storyline just sort of came to me and I posted it just 'cause "I felt like it". So thanks again for your support, I hope this chappie doesn't disappoint, but as always, I appreciate constructive criticism. BTW, there are no scenes in this chapter of a medically graphic nature, so yes; you may go get a snack to eat while you read this...**

One evening shortly after Private Lawrence's death, Faith was chosen to work a double shift--evening and night. They were low on personnel because one nurse was on an overnight furlough and another nurse had taken ill (_just a simple stomach ailment_, Matron reassured Faith, for all the nurses were still thinking about Private McInerny's consumptive condition). So there she was, on the night shift, overseeing the dimly lit ward and watching the soldiers as they slept. But she had other duties, too. There were fires to stoke in the woodstoves because the kettles had to be kept going. And then she had to do the rounds of bedpans. Of course, the floor had to be swept, even at night, although it was done quietly so as not to wake anybody.

As Faith was sweeping the floor, she turned to find a glittering pair of eyes looking in her direction. She went over to the soldier and whispered, "Is everything all right, Private Sims? Do you need anything?"

"All right?" He grinned suddenly, flashing white teeth. "I'd say everything is just fine."

"Then you should try to get some sleep. I'll sweep over there," she indicated the other end of the ward with her hand, "So you won't be disturbed."

"No, don't go, Sister. Not yet." He reached into his bedside table and pulled out a well-worn envelope. "Here, read it."

She took the envelope from him and pulled out an equally well-worn letter. The room was too dark for reading, however, and she squinted as she struggled over the words, first holding the letter close to her face, now holding it at arm's length.

"Never mind Sister," he grinned and took letter and envelope from her and shoved them untidily back into the drawer, although he remembered not to slam it shut and wake up his sleeping comrades. "It was from my Jaimie. My own dear Jaimie. Guess what? Two weeks ago she gave birth to a strapping baby boy." And he settled back, well pleased with himself.

"Congratulations."

"Yep, eight pounds, twelve ounces. And a set of lungs on him! Jaimie writes he can be heard a mile away."

"How nice," she smiled.

"But Heaven alone knows if--" he corrected himself. "When I'll get to see him."

"I pray sooner rather than later."

"Amen, Sister."

Unbidden, unwanted, Faith felt jealously as bitter as bile rise up in her. Ashamed of herself, she pushed the unworthy feeling away, cleared her head and proceeded to listen carefully to his story.

"Yep, me 'n the little woman, we just been married a year--got married on my furlough. I thought we'd have to wait until the War was over--her ma was so set on a grand church wedding--but my Jaimie--dear Jaimie--talked her around. She cried, she ranted, she said she'd never be happy again in this life if she wasn't allowed to marry me. When all that didn't work, she threatened to elope. She was magnificent, my Jaimie. Oh, her ma got the church wedding she set her heart on, but just a little less grand--Jaimie can be real agreeable when she's getting her own way." And here he stopped and laughed and Faith smiled again.

A movement out of the corner of her eye made her look up. Matron was beckoning to her from behind the nurses' desk.

"If you'll excuse me?" She asked him, jerking her head towards Matron.

He gave her a grin and a mock salute.

"I'll be good and try to sleep. But it's hard, Sister, it's hard."

When Faith got to the desk, Matron pulled her out into the hall.

"I've come to relieve you for break. You have a half hour."

"Yes, ma'am."

"There's a fresh pot of coffee in the break room."

"Thank you ma'am."

Faith walked down the silent corridor to the break room, still trying by sheer force of will to fight the sick, discontented feeling that had taken hold when she talked to Private Sims. She hated to admit it to herself, but she was eaten by jealousy. She hated herself for feeling this way. _What is _wrong_ with me?_ She thought. _Why can't I just feel happy for Private Sims? His wedding and his baby didn't take anything away from me--his good fortune didn't lessen what Jem and I will have if--when!--he survives the War._ It was just that--well--if only...

Faith poured herself a cup of coffee. There was no cream or sugar to go with it. They all saved such luxuries for the soldiers. But Faith didn't care. What was a little thing like cream and sugar when all she really wanted in life was for her Jem to come home to her? She set her cup on the windowsill, knelt on the shabby old sofa, facing out the window, and rested her chin on her arm. It was too dark to see anything, although sometimes she deemed she saw movement--perhaps it was the guards. Or perhaps it was only her imagination. It didn't really matter. She just wanted to think about Jem and remember the last time she'd seen him.

_They met up in England once before he was captured. He only had a few hours furlough, but it was enough--or at least it seemed enough at the time._

"_Can you feel the breeze?" Faith murmured. They were walking hand in hand along the main street of the town where Faith's hospital was situated. "Just like in Rainbow Valley."_

"_The mere mention of Rainbow Valley makes me feel like we're children again--when the most worrisome thing in the world was how to keep Mary Vance from being sent back to the orphanage," was Jem's reply._

_Faith laughed, then she punched his arm playfully. "That really was a serious problem--little Una solved that crisis. But some of the things we worried about in those days are pretty funny to look back at now. For instance, worrisome was having to convince Uncle Norman to come to church and pay the salary."_

_Now it was Jem's turn to laugh, but he shook his head. "How you accomplished that still passes my understanding."_

_Faith sniffed scornfully. "Uncle Norman's a pussycat--under all that bluster. Of course, I know that now, but at the time--worrisome."_

"_How about graduating from Redmond? For that matter, graduating from Queen's? Both very worrisome times." _

"_Ha--what about the entrance exam to even get into Queens? We barely saw you that whole year."_

"_Well, okay, if you insist. Here's one--worrisome was Walter standing up to Dan Reese."_

_They both fell silent then, thinking about Walter who had been taken away from them all too soon. _

_Presently they came to a bridge and paused right in the middle to stare at the water rushing underneath._

"_I don't know which is more compelling," mused Faith as she rested her elbows on the stone wall. "Staring at rushing water, or staring at a roaring fire."_

"_I know something that's more compelling to look at than either fire or water." And he put his arm around her waist as she leaned her head back against his shoulder. "Do you remember the rose you gave me that last night in Rainbow Valley? How you kissed it and put it in my buttonhole? I still have it, you know."_

_She stiffened suddenly and slipped away from him and crossed the bridge, wandering into the edge of a farmer's field. He followed her, wondering at this caprice._

"_What is it Faith?"_

"_Oh--I'm looking for another flower or something---something you can keep as a remembrance." Her back was to him, but her voice sounded odd--as if she were struggling not to cry._

"_You don't have to do that," he said warily. He had a young man's horror of feminine tears. _

_She ignored him and continued her search. She walked along the edge of the road for a while. She searched along the edge of the stone wall that the farmer had allowed to fall into ruin. Then she doubled back to the bridge, but rather than crossing it, she let herself carefully down the embankment almost to the edge of the creek. There she crouched down and gently pushed aside the tall grasses as she looked for just the right flower._

"_Faith! I don't have much longer before I have to take you back to the hospital," Jem cried. He was beginning to lose patience._

_Faith sighed heavily, but she remained crouching in the tall grass and didn't turn to look at him. "Do you realize that most of what we talked about tonight were reminisces?"_

_Jem shrugged and crept gingerly down the embankment to stand by her side. "What about it? There's nothing wrong with walking down memory lane."_

"_Nothing, except I want some _now_ to remember later."_

"_We have our whole future ahead of us."_

"_God willing," she murmured. But she straightened up and let Jem lead her up the bank to the road. _

_They meandered along in silence for a pace. Then Jem said, "I don't need anything else to remember you by, you know."_

_She answered in a voice so low he could barely hear her. "There is --one thing--I so wanted to give you..."_

_The pain in her voice was unmistakable and Jem, caught by surprise, crushed her hand so hard he dug her engagement ring into her flesh. "You know why we couldn't do that."_

"_All I know is why you say we couldn't. But I disagree. We could find a chaplain to marry us here. Even right now it's not too late."_

"_Is that what you really want? An elopement?"_

"_I want _you_, Jem. I want to be Mrs. James Blythe."_

"_But think, Faith--what it would mean to everybody for us to marry in the church in Glen St. Mary--you all decked out in bridal white, with your father to marry us and Una as your bridesmaid--remember how you talked about it?"_

"_We talked and we talked," she broke in impatiently. "And it was a good idea, Jem, back then. But the War came and changed everything. Now I just want to be your wife."_

_Jem sighed heavily. "You're not thinking logically. Anything could happen to me--there are no guarantees for tomorrow..."_

"_All the more reason for us to marry right now."_

_He shook his head. "But what if--there were a baby--and then something were to happen to me and then you would be left--alone."_

"_With our large families? We would not be left alone, however else things might stand."_

"_And that's the other thing. Our families still would want to be there for our wedding."_

_Faith stopped and put her hands on her hips. "Jem Blythe, your mother is probably the most romantic woman I ever met. She would understand and approve. And perhaps Father would be disappointed that he couldn't marry us, but he wouldn't want to stand in the way of our happiness, either. I'm positive of it."_

"_No. I can't go into battle with that kind of worry for you on my mind."_

"_Oh, Jem..." she said, her eyes filling with tears. She walked along quickly and pulled her handkerchief from her pocket to dab her face._

_He fell in beside her. "Are you angry, Faith?"_

_She struck out impatiently at him, but that didn't stop Jem from stepping in front of her to block her path. Taking her face in his hands, he kissed her many times. Then he picked up one of her curls and kissed that too._

"_Are you angry with me, Faith?" He repeated._

"_Yes. Terribly angry. I'm furious." And she sank into his arms..._

Faith poured over her memories, wearing them thin and feeling discontent. She was tired of memories. She wanted something _now_. Not for Faith Una's waiflike drifting through life, letting things happen to her. No! Faith was young and alive and wanted to live life to the fullest. She wanted to enjoy her inheritance of health and beauty and the adventure the War had brought her. She wanted to know what it was to belong to another person utterly, to let love sweep through her with untamable force, to bring children into the world and raise them and know first hand the cares and labors and joys of motherhood.

But now, none of that might happen. And even though it made her feel guilty, she felt just the tiniest bit of resentment towards Jem.


	7. Chapter 7

**PLEASE don't make me explain yet again how I'm not L.M. Montgomery or Colleen McCullough…**

Faith woke up the next day after a long, dreamless sleep, disoriented at the bright sunlight that flooded the room. She wore a blinder over her eyes to block the light, but it had slipped off. Faith groped around her bedside stand until she felt her watch. Blinking a few times, she brought it close to her face. Two-thirty pip emma. Groaning, she plunked the watch back down on the table with a loud slam, and mashed her face into her pillow. How was anybody supposed to sleep in the middle of the day? It was inhuman, unnatural, and cruel.

It was warm in the room and she folded back her blanket and pulled the sheet up to her waist. Then she settled the blinder back over her eyes and tried to discipline her mind into a calm, relaxing blank so she could fall back to sleep. And it must be said Faith tried valiantly. But sleep eluded her and she tossed and turned, trying to get comfortable. Instead, she found her mind racing--with the usual thoughts about her family and her patients and her fiancé--until with another groan she gave up and checked her watch again. Now it was three o'clock. But at least Matron gave her this day off to recover. She pulled herself up to sitting and rubbed her eyes. She might as well just get up now, as much as she wished she could sleep all day and never wake up until tomorrow when she would have to report for the evening shift again.

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Ralph DeBricassart sighed as he put the letter down. It was a kindly, newsy letter from his father, all full of information about the stud farm and the horses and his brother. They were all well, apparently, and the senior DeBricassart restated his position that if Ralph wanted to cut his tour with the Red Cross short, he was more than welcome home.

There was little news of his mother, only a statement that Ralph's father was doing "everything" he could to reconcile her to Ralph's vocation.

Ralph felt a little pain in his heart. So Mother still hadn't changed her mind, still saw him as a traitor who put his own feelings above the needs of their family. He always knew that the priesthood would demand certain sacrifices, and he felt equal to the challenge. Poverty, chastity, obedience. None of them easy, of course, but he going into it with eyes wide open. However, he never imagined that part of the sacrifice would mean estrangement from his own mother. It was almost enough to make him turn back. But not completely. He was not one to look back after he put his hand to the plow--even though it hurt...

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Early in the evening, Faith sighed as she dropped her letter into the post. It was her typical letter home, replete with funny little anecdotes about the War, full of buoyant optimism about Jem, never hinting at the constant dread she felt as the days went by without any news of him. Keep the faith--Walter said that once. Or maybe he wrote it. It didn't really matter. And yet--funny her name should be _Faith_...

She had to write such letters, she knew. She couldn't let Father and Rosemary worry about her or let little Bruce worry about Jem. And of course, the Merediths would share her letter with the Blythes. Would she ever let Dr. and Mrs. Blythe worry when she could do something, anything to prevent it? Perish the thought! They were like family to her. And if--when! Jem survived, they _would_ be family to her. No. She could not cause any of her loved ones extra grief. And yet...

There were times she didn't know where she drew her strength from. Her girlfriends, fellow nurses, had been supportive, but they all had sorrows of their own. She craved one special person she could pour her heart out to who could simply listen, maybe hold her hand, and not be thinking about their own problems while listening to hers. Of course, that was ridiculous. Such a person didn't exist--everybody had some problems or another.

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It's a long way to Tipperary

It's a long way to go.

It's a long way to Tipperary

To the sweetest girl I know!

It was after dinner that Ralph walked past the Nissen hut that was usually used for the storage of vehicles and large items like extra beds, but tonight had been cleared out to accommodate the evening's entertainment. A band had been hired. It was supposed to be a concert, and would probably start out that way, but as the night wore on, relaxation would turn into restlessness and eventually the nurses and soldiers would use the opportunity to dance.

Already the crowd was loosening up. Many of the soldiers were singing along to "Tipperary" and as he passed the open doors, he could see that some of the men were on their feet and swaying to the music. He smiled a little. They needed some release occasionally. But Ralph would not be joining them.

Instead, he walked into the little non-denominational chapel where he would be assured of solitude. No Nissen hut for the house of God--no, not this. It was a real building--albeit a bare, hastily built building, hardly more sophisticated than a shed, but it had the requisite pulpit and altar and pews.

There were no statues or icons, and the cross was bare, also--no sculpted image of the suffering Lord. But Ralph had no need for such externals to aid in his devotions.

He knelt down on the bare wooden floor and collected his thoughts. That letter from his father had cut him to the quick. So his mother still hadn't forgiven him, still refused to talk to him, still persisted in the idea that she would persuade him away from the priesthood even though it was family tradition that the second son of the family would enter the seminary.

He joined his hands together and offered up fervent prayers that one day she would come to understand and forgive him. But even as he prayed, he doubted that this prayer would be answered the way he wanted. If that were the case, he would simply have to endure. He struggled inside himself, struggled with being torn between honoring his mother whom he loved and serving God, Whom he loved more. Sometimes it was only these long periods of prayer that gave him the strength to keep from turning away from his purpose and taking the next train back to his hometown and begging his mother's forgiveness. Tonight was going to be one of those nights.

Slowly, gently, he lowered himself until he was face down on the wooden floor, arms stretched out in the form of a cross. Praying in this posture always produced the same result, and it was this result he was seeking tonight...

He lay prostrate, praying wordlessly for guidance and the sensations would creep over him. If he held on to it, if he concentrated on it, it would come to him--he could almost feel it--a cold sharp wind, a scent of dirt and sweat and blood, the sounds of an angry mob. And in the distance he could "see" a hilltop, the gathering dark clouds, the forms of three crosses...

And after this experience he would arise, able to face whatever he had to face.

He lay on the floor, the sensations starting to come to him when he heard a gasp, and footsteps and a moment later he felt an insistent hand on his shoulder.

"Ralph, Ralph, are you okay?"

Pulling himself back to reality, he kneeled up, crossed himself hastily, and looked into the anxious face of Faith Meredith.

"Ralph, what happened?"

"I'm fine, Faith," he said wearily. He hadn't wanted to be interrupted and he didn't want to explain to her what he was doing--his meditation would sound bizarre spoken out loud, he was sure of it. Besides, it was deeply personal. He rose gracefully to his feet and gave her a tight, courteous smile. "I didn't mean to frighten you. Good night."

Then he nodded to her, turned and walked down the aisle and out the door, leaving an astonished Faith to look after him, speechless.

But she didn't remain speechless for long. She wanted to know what this strange man, who refused to enlist, was doing laying face down on the chapel floor. When she walked into the chapel and saw him there, her first wild thought was that he was passed out, drunk. But she never knew him to drink. Then she thought maybe he was sick or hurt and the thought upset her so much she ran up to him, ready to offer her assistance. And then what does he do? He waves aside her concern and walks out the door! Faith almost stamped her foot before she remembered she was in church, then followed after him.

Even as she followed, she was assailed by doubt. Why was she chasing him, what did she want from him, besides answers? He was off duty, he had the right to spend his leisure hours any way he wanted. Besides, she didn't particularly even like him. But here she was, chasing after him.

Goodbye Piccadilly,

Farewell Leicester Square

It's a long way to Tipperary

But my heart's right there.

Now there was an entire chorus of voices joining in the refrain as Faith walked briskly down the dirt path to the men's barracks. Faith would have loved to join in the singing if she had attended the concert. But this evening she was in too much distress to be around people. It was for this reason she had sought relief in the chapel--maybe in prayer she could ease this ache in her heart. At least she thought so until she had been diverted by Ralph.

When finally she caught him up, he was sitting on the veranda of his barracks, lighting a Capstan. He had one ankle across his other knee and he looked surprised to see her. But he held out the pack to her, offering one which she declined with a wave of her hand. Most women did not smoke, but some few did, and this broad-minded gesture annoyed her for some reason.

"What were you doing in there--in the chapel?" She demanded.

He put the pack in his breast pocket and looked at her kindly. "What were _you_ doing there?"

"I asked you first," she said, childishly.

He shrugged, tapped his ashes into the tray. "I wanted to pray. That's what the chapel is for, isn't it?"

"On your face?"

He chuckled and shrugged again, but gave neither excuse nor explanation. "Why aren't you at the show with the other nurses?"

"Why aren't you?"

He grinned at her then, looking almost boyish. "I'll answer your question if you answer mine."

The ridiculousness of the conversation and the situation suddenly hit Faith and she couldn't help grinning back, then chuckling.

Ralph looked at her appreciatively. He enjoyed beauty and when Faith smiled she was certainly beautiful. Of course, she didn't have the titian hair he was so fond of, but she did have crimson cheeks that gave her a rose-like quality he admired. He took a drag of his cigarette, exhaled and asked gently," What's the matter, Faith, why were you in the chapel and not at the show?"

Faith's face changed. Gone was the smile of camaraderie and in its place was the dislike he was more used to. He didn't realize it, but she was at the moment furious at herself for enjoying a pleasant laugh with a civilian who should have been in uniform. How dare he ask her what the matter was? How dare he sit smoking in the safety of England when her own dear Jem was captured and possibly...but no, she wouldn't think of it. She had gone to the chapel because she needed to get away from both the pain that was her constant companion and the perpetual false cheerfulness she put in her letters home. She had gone seeking refuge and found Ralph. In anger she hissed at him, "You want to know what the matter is? Do you want to know? Fine, I'll tell you. My fiancé was captured by the Huns. I don't know if he's alive or dead, but it's my _duty_ to write calming, cheerful letters to the home folks so they won't worry. And do you know what? I'm tired of being brave. I'm tired of being cheerful. I'm tired of this endless grief and worry. But most of all, I'm tired of seeing men like you, healthy, young men who refuse to fight for our side."

"Faith, I'm sorry about your fiancé," he said, so contrite and sincere she almost forgave him.

"_That's_ not your fault," she mumbled. She sank down onto the veranda steps and leaned back against the railing. She passed a hand over her eyes then turned her face and looked out over the grounds. Faintly but distinctly she could hear some soldiers singing the "other" version of "Tipperary", the one that was sung after the beer had been flowing freely for awhile.

That's the wrong way to tickle Mary

That's the wrong way to kiss

Don't you know that over here lad

They like it best like this...

Faith had blushed the first time she heard this unauthorized verse, but repetition had dulled her embarrassment. Now she barely gave it any notice.

Ralph squashed out his cigarette and uncrossed his legs. Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, he said, "Odd, isn't it, how many forms loss can take. You can lose your loved ones through death, or desertion, capture, even estrangement. Maybe we just need to look at it as part of God's great, unfathomable plan."

Faith's head snapped around. She narrowed her eyes at him, angry again. "God's great, unfathomable plan? How dare you speak to me about _God's plan_ when my Jem might be dead and you sit here, safe and sound!" She sprung to her feet. " I'm sorry I ever spoke to you, Ralph DeBricassart and I'm sorry I was worried about you in the chapel. Don't ever speak to me again." With that she whirled and stomped off her her barracks, this time leaving Ralph to look after her, astonished.


End file.
